


Confidences and Cookies

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Multi, Team, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6744625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>El caters when she's nervous.</p><p>Set near the beginning of season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidences and Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> For round 3 of runthecon on Livejournal. This is for cookielaura's prompt of "it's not a matter of 'if', it's a matter of 'when.'"
> 
> A million thanks to mergatrude for beta.

The knock came as El was re-arranging the edible flower garnish on the plate of home-baked cookies. Satchmo raised his head and looked toward the front door. Neal came through from the kitchen and leaned against the bookcase, a picture of casual confidence.

El met his eye. “That’s them.”

“Show no fear.”

She nodded and went to let them in with a smile. “Diana, Clinton. Thanks for coming.” She waved them inside, quashing her misgivings. Probably she and Neal should have discussed this with Peter first, but it was too late to change the plan now. 

“Elizabeth.” Clinton shrugged out of his coat and slung it over the bannister. “What’s the big mystery?”

“Hi, Caffrey.” Diana looked from Neal to El, eyebrows raised.

“Please, sit down. Have a cookie.” El perched on the edge of the armchair by the bookcase, where she could feel Neal’s presence. Diana and Clinton took the couch, and when they were seated, she got straight to the point. “Peter doesn’t know we’re meeting with you, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Clinton scratched the corner of his mouth and didn’t say anything. 

“That depends,” said Diana. 

Of course their first loyalty was to Peter. El had known that—in fact, she was counting on it. She took a deep breath and felt the squeeze of Neal’s hand on her shoulder, warm and steadying, and her nerves dissolved into something bright and sure and wonderful. “I wanted you to hear it from us—Peter and Neal and I are in a—a personal relationship.”

Clinton’s eyebrows flew up, but Diana grinned. “Ha, I knew it.” She held out her hand to Clinton. “Pay up!”

“I don’t carry that kind of cash,” said Clinton. He looked at Neal. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Neal looked smug.

Clinton shook his head. “You couldn’t have waited till your parole was up?”

El shrugged. “We tried, but—”

“No,” said Neal. “Two more years? No.”

“It’s too late for that anyway,” said Diana. She turned her attention on Neal, fierce as a laser. “You want this?”

“I came back from the island for this,” said Neal, simply. “I could have run again.”

Clinton ran his hand over the back of his head. “Does the DoJ know it’s one of the conditions of your parole?”

He was clearly joking, but El still couldn’t let it pass. “It’s not a condition of anything,” she said, covering Neal’s hand on her shoulder, looking up at him. “Not even of how much we love you.”

His mouth softened and curved, and their gazes locked. “I know.” 

Clinton cleared his throat pointedly, and El flushed and turned back to them. “Anyway, the point is, it took some convincing and a lot of soul-searching for Peter to bend the rules to get us here, and we don’t want you to—” 

“We want to get you on board,” interrupted Neal, smoothly, cutting her off before she accidentally accused them of potential blundering. 

Diana gestured at the platter on the coffee table, heaped with lemon shortbread, snickerdoodles and chocolate brownies. “You’re trying to buy our silence with baking?”

“El caters when she’s nervous,” said Neal.

El swatted him, embarrassed. “I’m not nervous. It’s just, you know, we’ve got a lot at stake. Peter, too.”

Diana nodded. “Hughes would not be happy.”

“Hughes doesn’t need to know,” said Neal.

Just then, Satchmo jumped up and ran to the door, and Peter walked in. “Hey, boy. Hon, have you heard from Neal—” He stopped dead, looking around the room, shut the door before Satch could go off on an adventure, and fisted his hands on his hips. “What’s going on?” 

“Hey, hon.” El shot him a guilty smile.

“El and Neal are coming out to us about your clandestine affair,” said Diana, leaning back.

Peter’s ears turned pink. “You should have talked to me first,” he told El and Neal. “I was protecting them. I don’t want them implicated if the Bureau finds out.”

“We don’t need protecting,” said Diana.

El spread her hands, still focused on Peter. “I know that’s why you couldn’t tell them, but you said you wished there was a way. I thought if I did it...” She’d hoped that would absolve Peter _and_ Diana and Clinton somehow. It had been an easy solution, like the other times she’d gone behind his back—sending Neal into the corrupt judge’s chamber, convincing Ellen to give Peter the pager number. Those had worked out. And as always, Neal had backed her play. But this time, Peter was scowling. She tried again. “Hon, they’re investigators, and they know you. Sooner or later they would have figured it out. It wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when.”

“This way you don’t have to keep them in the dark,” added Neal.

And they could tell Diana and Clinton in a controlled environment, on their own terms, instead of it coming out in a meeting in front of other staff or even criminals who might use it against them.

“For what it’s worth,” said Diana, breaking the tense silence, “I just won a bet with Jones worth a thousand bucks.”

Neal whistled. “A grand?”

Peter let out a long breath. “You knew.”

She grinned. “Boss, you chased him halfway round the world to bring him home. You put your career on the line. And Elizabeth encouraged you every step of the way. Plus Caffrey has been unbelievably smug since you got back, even for him.”

Clinton nodded. “That’s true. I should have guessed, but—the three of you, how does that even work?”

“You want a demo?” asked Neal, wickedly.

“No,” said Peter, Diana and Clinton in unison.

Neal laughed.

“How about a cup of coffee and a snickerdoodle instead?” El had been baking all day but too on edge to taste the fruits of her labor. 

“I think this calls for something stronger than coffee, don’t you?” Diana elbowed Clinton.

He looked around the room, from El to Neal and then to Peter. “Champagne, definitely.”

El beamed at both of them, grateful for their blessing. Then her face fell. “Oh. We don’t have any champagne.” She’d considered bringing some home from work, but she hadn’t wanted to tempt fate.

“Actually, we do.” Neal pushed off the bookcase. “Check the fridge.”

“Of course,” said Peter, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling now too, if wryly. “Just do me a favor, you two—from now on, we decide this kind of stuff together.”

“It’s a deal,” said Neal. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tray of champagne and five flutes. He opened the bottle expertly and passed around the glasses, and they all held them up, ready to make a toast.

“So,” said El, mischievously, knowing it would rattle Peter _and_ Neal, “when are we telling Moz?”

 

END


End file.
